“So I gathered.”
“I didn’t have many answers, though.”
“I gathered that too.”
“How about you? You got any answers, Nolan? Can you tell me what this was all about tonight? Is Stevie really a... murderer?”
“Steve’s a soldier, Diane. He’s been trained as a soldier. Killing is part of that. Sometimes soldiers have trouble readjusting to civilian life, that’s all. Steve will be all right.”
“You mean he... he did kill the two DiPreta brothers? I... I don’t believe it. And I... I don’t believe you’re sitting there and talking about his... his killing people as if it’s some kind of stage he’s going through, a little readjustment thing he has to work out now that he’s back home again.”
“Diane, you’re tired. You’re upset. Get some sleep.”
“I won’t be getting any sleep at all tonight, Nolan, unless you tell me just what the hell is going on, goddamnit!” She caught herself shouting and lowered her voice immediately, glancing back over her shoulder toward her daughter’s room. “You’ve got to tell me, Nolan, tell me all of it, or I’ll go out of my mind wondering, worrying.”
“All right,” Nolan said, and he told her — all of it, or as much of it as was necessary, anyway. She stopped him now and again with questions, and he answered them as truthfully as possible. But he kept this version consistent with what he’d told Frank DiPreta. He told Diane her brother had already left, that Steve would be well on his way out of Des Moines by now.
“Will he... he call me or anything? Will I hear from him at all?”
“Not for a while, probably. But maybe sooner than we thought at first. After what happened tonight, Frank DiPreta may not be the same man. I can’t say in what way Frank’ll be different... maybe he’ll be a reformed, nonviolent type from here on out, maybe he’ll end up in a padded cell, I don’t know. But he is going to be different, and that’ll affect how long Steve has to stay in hiding.”
“Nolan.”
“Yeah?”
“I... I don’t know how to react to all this. It’s just too... too much to digest at once, too overwhelming.”
“Give yourself some time.”
“You know, Nolan, my... my emotions have been all dammed up inside me for a real long time... you know, ever since the folks died. For better or worse, you’ve changed that, coming to Des Moines today, coming out of my past, a memory walking in the goddamn door. I guess I have something in common with that awful Frank DiPreta... It’s going to take a while to see what person I turn out to be, who I am now. I’ll be different, too, after today, and you’re the cause of it, or part of the cause, at least. And you know what the hell of it is?”
“No. What.”
“I don’t know whether to thank you for it or kick you in the ass.”
Nolan grinned. “I’ll bend over if you want.”
“No, that’s okay.”
“Come here a minute.”
“You’re... you’re going to kiss me good-bye now, aren’t you, Nolan?”
“I think so.”
“But that’s all.”
“Yeah. I think you’ve had enough emotional nonsense for one day. We can do more next time, if you want.”
“I think that’s a good idea. Nolan?”
“Yeah?”
“You can go ahead and kiss me now.”
Nolan got back in the car and Jon said, “That took long enough. We must be on an expense account or you wouldn’t let me sit out here with the car running all this time.”
“Well, it was kind of a sensitive thing, you know. People who get kidnapped require sensitive treatment.”
“You want me to drive?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Jon backed out of the parking stall, drove out of the apartment house lot and got back onto East 14th. He said, “How about when your old archenemy Charlie kidnapped me, not so long ago? I don’t recall you treating me sensitive.”
“You’re not six years old, either.”
“That mother’s not six years old. That mother’s older than I am. You give her sensitive treatment, too?”
“Damn right I did. Wouldn’t you?”
Jon guessed he would. “Where do I turn?”
“Not for a while yet. I’ll tell you when.”
They drove.
Pretty soon Nolan pointed and said, “Second side street down. Walnut.”
A Cadillac pulled out in front of them.
“Hey, Nolan, did you see who that was?”
“See who what was?”
“That guy in the Caddy. I’d swear it was that guy what’s-his-name.”
“You don’t say.”
“No, really, that guy Cotter, Nolan, don’t you remember?”
“Felix’s bodyguard, you mean?”
“Yeah, the guy I gave the bloody nose to.”
“Couldn’t be. Here, turn here. You’re going to miss it.”
Jon cornered fast and the big car lumbered onto Walnut. Nolan checked his watch: quarter to nine.
He’d said he’d be back by nine-thirty and had made it easy, despite the DiPreta diversion.
“Hey, what’s that?” Jon said, slowing. “Is that guy sick?”
A green Sunbird was parked in front of Steve’s apartment. The trunk lid was open, and a figure was slumped inside, sprawled, sort of.
“Stop the car,” Nolan said, and hopped out.
Nolan walked toward the Sunbird. The quiet residential street was unlit, with no one in sight but the figure bent over in half inside the trunk of the car.
He drew his .38.
And recognized the figure.
“Steve?” he said.
He ran the rest of the way.
When he touched Steve’s shoulder, he knew.
He gently lifted the body, looked at the dime-size hole in Steve’s temple, where the bullet had gone in. The boy’s eyes were open. There was an expression frozen onto the boy’s face, which seemed to Nolan an expression of disappointment.
Steve’s last thought, apparently, had been that Nolan betrayed him.
He lowered Steve back into the trunk, which was filled with luggage and other personal belongings. Steve had been loading up the trunk, evidently when it happened. Since there was no milling crowd, it was apparent a silenced gun had been used. Nolan noticed an envelope in Steve’s breast pocket, when he lowered the boy; he looked inside the envelope, pocketed it.
He put the .38 away. He knew who’d killed Steve, and why, and knew also that the killer was no longer around.
He walked back to the Cadillac.
Before he got in, he struck the side of the car with his fist, leaving a dent.
Five: Saturday Morning
17
Nolan broke the egg on the side of the skillet.
Jon, yawning, came into the kitchen. “Oh, Nolan... are you up already?”
“No.” He broke a second egg. A third.
“No?”
“Haven’t been to bed yet.”
“Oh. I never saw you cook before. I didn’t know you could cook.”
“I’m fifty years old and a bachelor. I can cook. You want some eggs?”
“Sure. Sunny side up.”
“Scrambled.”
“Yeah, well, scrambled, then. What are you cooking for, Nolan?”
“Practice. I’m out of shape scrambling eggs and want to make sure I haven’t lost my touch.”
Jon yawned. “Why didn’t you sleep?”
“I had some thinking to do.”
“What kind of thinking?”
“Figuring some things out.”
“Such as?”
“Such as whether or not to kill some people.”
“Oh. What did you decide?”
“I’m still thinking.”
“You want me to fix some toast?”
“Why don’t you.”
It was seven o’clock in the morning. Nolan didn’t have to ask Jon why he was up. The kid always got up at seven on Saturday to watch old Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck cartoons; Nolan had learned that the time he was healing up from some bullet wounds here at Planner’s.